


Live By Chance Amongst the Lightning Strikes

by JustJasper



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anal Fingering, Electricity, Electrostimulation, Established Relationship, Estim, M/M, The Lightning Trick, Wham Splat Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-07
Updated: 2016-03-07
Packaged: 2018-05-25 05:09:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6181510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustJasper/pseuds/JustJasper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the Bull's birthday, and it's storming outside.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Live By Chance Amongst the Lightning Strikes

**Author's Note:**

> My Entry for Wham! Splat! Porn! for the prompt "celebration".
> 
> Title is a lyric from The Tallest Man on Earth's 'Burden of Tomorrow' which has nothing to do with the fic but has cool lyrical imagery.

**“There is always a storm. There is always rain. Some experience it. Some live through it. And others are made from it.” - Shannon L. Alder**

“Chief!” Krem calls, over the chatter of the pub and the constant rhymth of the rain against the windows as it pours upon Skyhold, washing away the last of the winter snow with it.

Dorian stops, feels his chest clench, even though it's long since public knowledge that he's fucking the Bull. The two of them disappearing together is hardly out of the ordinary, but still, he worries that one day someone will take issue. Fears most of all it will be someone who cares for either of them. The Bull turns, tips his chin up.

“Birthday drinks later?” Krem says. “We've got to celebrate.”

“Who's birthday is it?” Dorian asks. Krem laughs.

“The Chief’s.”

“Oh, right.” He'd had no idea.

“C'mon,” Bull urges, patting Dorian on the backside and encouraging him towards his room. He goes, thinking he ought to have known the birthday of the man he's routinely fucking by now.

“Well wishing seems in order,” Dorian says, when the door to the Bull's room is closed behind them. The Bull shrugs.

“Don't worry about it. Got all month to celebrate.”

“I was under the impression that birthdays aren't celebrated under the Qun,” Dorian says.

“They're not.”

“So, what? You just picked a day?”

“I know the month I was born, and the year. Everyone born in the same month goes with the same Tamassran. They probably have more detailed records, but since we don't really mark birthdays beyond our age, we never needed to know.”

“Right,” he says, trying to keep the judgement from his tone.

“Krem thought it was stupid too,” the Bull says, not fooled. “Decided if I didn't know the day, then the whole month would be the celebration.”

Dorian laughs. “How convenient.”

“Pretty great, huh?”

“Ingenious.”

The Bull draws him into a kiss then, slow and gentle as it so often starts these days. A build up, a path to a fork in the road; continue the softness right through to the fucking, or change it; roughness, intensity, slowness. Sometimes they know exactly what the night entails, but mostly it grows out of moments like this, the first touch, the kiss; the Bull can always seem to anticipate what Dorian needs. He can't even be bothered to learn the basic facts about the Bull in return, it would seem. The Bull probably knows _his_ birthday.

The Bull draws away from the kiss, fingers gentle at the nape of Dorian's neck.

“What's up?”

Dorian sighs, and frowns. “How is it that I’ve drank several pints of your seed, but I don't know when you were born?”

The Bull's laugh booms out, and he takes a step back so he doesn't whack Dorian with his horns as he bends to brace his hands on his thighs and laugh. Dorian can't help following, some of the ridiculous tension melting away with his own laughter.

“Shit, Dorian, you've got a way with words.”

“Yes, well. You must let me offer you my congratulations on this anniversary of your birth.”

“What are you thinking?”

“That rather depends what you want. Although I suppose therein lies the problem; that there's nothing I wouldn't let you do to me regularly, so that leaves little one could deem special enough to mark the occasion.”

There's a confession there, quite obvious to the Bull within the bluster he's sure, and Dorian's heart races for having said it. The Bull smiles at him, eyes damp from laughter, face soft.

“It's all pretty special, kadan.”

He should ask what the word means, but he's realised he'd be disappointed if he were to discover it meant “hot stuff” and not... something else.

“Then take your pick. Let me do something for you, for your birthday.”

The Bull considers him. He knows this is not how the Bull really works – when he chooses, he's usually choosing something he's going to like, of course, but that primary is done with Dorian's needs in mind, Dorian's preferences and Dorian's wants. It wouldn't surprise Dorian if the Bull does that now, but he at least seems to be giving it some thought, eye narrowed, lips gone thin as he watches Dorian.

“The electricity trick,” the Bull says finally, then, “but in my ass.”

“Oh.” Well, he wasn't expecting that. “How long have you had that idea? You've been holding out on me, Bull. But yes, I rather think I can manage that.”

They shed their clothes between kisses. The kisses are rather distracting, and Dorian has to help the Bull out of his belt and trousers, the Bull is so busy sucking bruises into his neck.

When they're naked the Bull climbs onto the bed and settles amongst the pillows, shifting and plumping them as he goes. Dorian feels the fondness in his chest like the summer sun.

“Comfortable?” he asks, moustache twitching with amusement.

“Yeah. Wanna see you when you're doing it.”

Dorian hums, climbs onto the bed with him, and dips his head to kiss the Bull's scarred knee. The wind rattles the glass of the window in its frame, but it holds, and the downpour outside continues to beat against the doors and the walls.

There is something utterly enrapturing about how easy this is with the Bull, how easy it has always been, whether they're merely tumbling, or doing something more involved. No matter how many ropes or candles or other aids involved, it has never been as simple as this.

He strokes his hand along the Bull's thighs, pressing them apart as he goes.

“The watchword?” Dorian prompts.

“Katoh,” the Bull says, with no hesitance, none of the eye-rolled reluctance that Dorian used to repeat it with, when he took it for granted what the Bull offered him with the watchword; complete control. He gives that now to the Bull, who is lying naked with his legs spread, Dorian's fingers pressing lightly at his hole.

“Good.”

Dorian withdraws his hand and spreads oil on his first two fingers – he's sparing with it, knows the Bull likes the friction, and presses them again to the Bull's entrance.

“You ready?”

“Yeah.”

He teases his way in, coaxing the Bull's body to open to his fingers, the muscles to relax and give, letting his finger in. The Bull's body is larger in scale than his in all ways, but here it's hard to tell; his muscles still work to keep him out, have to be gentled and rubbed and teased into giving, and then they close so tight around Dorian's fingers.

The Bull moans, low and long. Dorian smooths his free hand down the inside of his thighs, worries the skin with a little give there, the warm fat under his hand, laying over the solid muscle. The Bull's body is like nothing he's known before, and now it's all he find himself wanting.

Dorian curves his fingers and skims the pads over the Bull's prostate.

“Fuck,” the Bull breathes.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Dorian asks. For good measure, he lights a spark against the Bull's knee. The Bull jumps, and the muscles of his leg spasm.

“Shit yeah,” he laughs. “Maybe build up to that strength though.”

“It'll barely be a tickle, to start.”

It's a tickle that still has the Bull jolting.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he says emphatically, flexing the muscles of his thighs. “You done this to yourself before?”

“Oh, yes,” Dorian says. “You're in quite experienced hands.”

“That's hot.”

Dorian sparks his fingers again, sending a shock of lightning right against the Bull's prostate. The Bull's heavy cock twitches and spurts out precome against his belly.

“Oh, would you look at that!” Dorian coos. “My next pint.”

“You're dirty,” the Bull says fondly.

“I try.”

The Bull doesn't seem to be able to stop providing as they go on; precome leaks steadily from his cock, stronger with each electric pulse Dorian directs against the bundle of nerves inside him until it begins to roll sideways down the curve of his belly. His breath catches, huge chest heaving haphazardly as he tries to follow the rhythm Dorian plays out inside him.

“Shit, kadan. This is _so good_.”

“How long have you wanted to try this?”

“Thought about it since the first time you did the lightning trick.”

“Is there is a reason you didn't tell me?”

“Nah. We've got time. Lots of things we can try.”

“I'll hold you to that.”

When they tumbled into bed it was good, but he never imagined they would come to a point when the Bull was asking Dorian to use magic on him like this. How quickly things have become everything he couldn't bring himself to hope for, with a man he never dreamed about, because he had no way to fathom he could have something—someone—like he has the Bull now.

“Yeah,” the Bull says, arching as Dorian arcs lightning inside him. “Fuck! More, Dorian.”

Dorian knows what it feels like to spark himself up from the inside, and he knows how much he can take; he gives the Bull a little more than that. The Bull moans, rolling his hips towards the sensation as the muscles of his thighs spasm, and his toes curl.

“You going to come, Bull?” Dorian asks, finds himself slightly breathless with it. Hard against the crease of his own thigh, too. He moves his free hand down as strokes himself, lost to his own sensation for only a few seconds, before he centres himself on the Bull again. “Are you going to come while I call a storm inside you?”

“Fuck,” the Bull gasps. “ _Fuck!_ ”

The Bull comes all over his belly as Dorian puts sparks against the Bull's insides, ropes of his seed pearly white against his silver skin.

Dorian comes over his fist just from the sight of it, knowing he made that happen, the first time he's managed to bring the Bull off like that, without a touch to his cock. Dorian thrusts his fingers inside the Bull, some last small sparks to help him ride out his pleasure.

When the Bull sags, no longer shuddering and groaning with orgasm Dorian laughs, pride bubbling up as he slips his fingers free.

“Shit, kadan. You're so good.”

Dorian moves forward, presses their bodies together so he might reach to kiss the Bull's slack mouth, coaxes him into response.

“How many other ideas are you sitting on?” Dorian teases.

“A few,” the Bull says, wraps his arms properly around Dorian, hauling him up against him, handfuls of his backside for leverage. “You wanna hear them?”

“I'd rather try them.”

He kisses him back then, lifts a hand and holds Dorian's head near, breathing heavy into the exchange of kisses. The rain patters on the wooden doors, the fire burns warm in the hearth, and Dorian settles against the Bull's chest.

**“When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.” - Haruki Murakami**


End file.
